"trazodone" poems
"what's that? you can't get out of your bed?
too weak to be alive, too lazy to be dead?
well! take your zoloft effectively
just inhibit reuptake selectively
and soon you'll have the energy
to end your life impulsively
or be rid of feelings entirely
a chipper, cheery half-zombie"
"your panicking fits interfere with your day?
i'll lay out a feast, a benzo-buffet
ativan, klonopin, xanax oh my!
not just for those who are too scared to fly!
pop two and kiss all of your worries goodbye
and your memory, too, if you come to rely
on hours spent watching your life pass by
just try and object through that stubborn tongue-tie"
"your circadian rhythm is not quite right
you're asleep with the sun and awake in the night
so take one of these twice before closing your eyes
and wait for the dreams that will doubtless arise
too vivid and real to know truth from lies
and the nightmares will be an unpleasant surprise
but stopping abruptly is duly unwise
so just find your stars in trazodone skies"
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
At first I was a little effexor,
though my pulse hurried to get cipralex.
My dreams were ****** and clonex,
so trazodone I could barely feel my fingertips,
yet zodorm enough to wake up in a cuckoo's nest.
Pulling me out of my psychiatric diagnosis
was never as easy as pulling me out of my morals
and clothes.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
I can see three skies
on the interior of my eyelids,
and I just got a text from
my friends at a party; it's
well past dark and it feels like
Genoa and Home and London
all in one. I keep
waking up and
dozing off again;
******* fits and
trazodone dreams.
I feel like I'm trapped
in a time loop; Groundhog Day,
but every day I love a new
person,
but you
always come around,
always on my mind
and I
do not know how to keep you
out of my brain, how to
keep you near me.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
dear doctor crombie
rhymes with cranberry remember
that’s what you told me so that i
would remember your name
and you chuckled like that was
the most clever thing in the world
but all i cared about was getting the hell
out of the **** psychiatric ward because being
in that place made me want to try
and **** myself all over again
which is totally the opposite of
what i was hoping for when i agreed to be
admitted but i digress
because what stuck
with me more than the dismal room
i was put in that was either
as hot as hell-fire or freezing cold
to the point where i decided that i’d rather
be able to see my breath than be soaked in sweat
and your shitty-ass joke
was the fact that on our first meeting
you told me that you thought my
coming out as transgender was
nothing more
than a diversion tactic
now dr. crombie
i want you to put yourself in my place
i was 16 years old
stimming and shaking as you stared me down
and then labeled me as nothing more than
a diversion tactic
and that crushed me
it had only been a few days since
i swallowed 40 trazodone and accepted
the fact that i would not be waking up again
and that was all you had to say to me
a diversion tactic
you pulled down the very core
of what i was in two words
and my god i hated you so much
in that moment
because dr. crombie
i had known i was not a girl
since i was 7 years old
and i held that inside me for 9 long years
that almost killed me
because *********
i knew that i wasn’t a girl for longer
than i had lived as a girl
and you just didn’t care
you took what i had given to you
laying myself out before you
because i was a scared
mentally ill teenager
that had just survived a
******* suicide attempt
and all you had to say
that my being transgender
was a diversion tactic
and even now
three years later
that still haunts me
the fact that you
a heterosexual cisgender male
born with a ***** and a flat chest
decided to chalk up my
9 years of hell to nothing more than
a diversion tactic
so dr. crombie
tell me what do you think
i was diverting from exactly
when i had willingly been admitted
to a sterile-smelling hellscape
where i was forced to relive
how i tried to forcibly end my life
every day in the ******** little therapy groups
that made me feel so much older and hollowed out
tell me doctor
what exactly was i diverting from
what was i trying to hide from and behind
by putting myself through the hell
of being near constantly dead-named
and misgendered and having to pay
up into the double digits just to change
my legal my deadname
and gender marker from an F to an M
and being told that i was technically still a girl
and being asked why i couldn’t just be a tomboy
a lesbian
a ****
a butch
why couldn’t i just be a girl huh
why did i have to be a boy
so tell me
dr. crombie
rhymes with cranberry
just what exactly was i
******* diverting from
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
If there's nothing they can do,
nothing I can be taught
in order to push the cold away,
please tell me at least the food
will be okay.
The last time, sauce dripping
over my teeth like I am supposed
to sink down into it, pour myself over
the meaty softness of someone else's body
and rest, being absorbed
into their consciousness until
I am nothing more than
a weight on their tongue.
Tell me I'll be able to sleep. They were
always leaving the door open,
the lights still on, I can't sleep knowing
that any moment something could happen
and it could come for me.
Tell me the faucets will pour out
cold water so I can wake up. Tell me
there will be a mirror so I can watch
the lessons taking hold
across my jawline.
I need to know they'll let me in
to see the doctor. Not the one
who tells me everything will be
all right, but the one who has
a plan, who lays everything out
in the simplest terms, so I can
understand.
The one whose mouth zigzags
around broken syllables
like a crooked train track, spitting
Lorazepam, Citalopram, Trazodone,
I don't understand the language
but I know, he does this every day,
points nonsense words at shadows
hoping someday we'll understand.
Maybe I could. If I could only
pull the sauce out from my eardrums,
clear the junk from my tongue and
the wreckage from my teeth;
Mother,
if the food is good,
then maybe someday,
I'll be able
to taste it for
myself.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
Lamictol
For my BPD,
From years of self-abuse and uncontrollable
Emotion.
Paxil
For anxiety
Because I was always told to be better
Even at my best.
Trazodone
Just to sleep
Because I keep myself awake
Thinking about how ****** up
Everything always was.
My life could be ruled by these three little names
Until I have no more breath
Because I can't even rule my emotions.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
Today we learned the alphabet.
We learned all about consonants,
And vowels, and about how you get
Different words with different sounds
When you compound them.
We learned all about how to end our sentences
With periods,
Except when we intend to indicate a pause
Or a breath, a second to emphasize
The next words,
For that you want a comma.
Next we learned about persuasive writing,
And about how citing is imperative to MLA,
And that Emily has to sign her life away
To the Navy, because there’s no space
For those whose grades fluctuate.
Then we walked a stage
And graduated and got new caps,
The kind that are flat with a tassel.
And then we worked so that we could
Afford the Trazodone to help us
Cope with the sadness.
Finally we were taught how to
Press the red button if we need
The nurse and she’s out of our sight,
And how to lean against the frame
So there’s space for our sheets
To be changed,
And how this machine keeps beeping
Faster and faster and how
Everyone’s seeming uneasy
And how their voices keep getting farther away
As if they’re aboard a ship on the easterlies
And how easy it is to fall asleep
After the beeping ceases.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
i took a handful of trazodone,
threw my head back
and counted the cracks
in your porcelain skin,
from memory
for two years
i've chanted
"if he hurts you again,
i swear i'll **** him"
but everyone knows
i'm the queen of broken promises
i took a handful of trazodone
and did nothing at all
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
It’s my night to meet with Liz
To tell her “bout my private biz
She mulls it over then tells me how it really is
You see it’s her job
To listen to me cry and sob
Imagine that…
She gets paid to listen to me
Most therapists say:
“Having a little anxiety attack?
"How about some nice Prozac”
Or
Can’t sleep, feeling lost and alone?
“How about some nice Trazodone”
Or
“Manic Depressive? Feel like a ***
How about some nice Lithium”
Not Liz…
She gives appropriate drugs
Better yet she gives big hugs
Encourages me my thoughts to share
Teaches me to live again if I dare
To break free from loss and pain
Knowing from the truth I might gain
More free time
For both of us
On
Wednesdays at six
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
that was gonna be me
ya know?
well it almost was
but sometimes
i feel like it really should have been
if only i had tried hard enough
but wouldn’t you know
trazodone is actually really
hard to overdose on
so it seems safe to conclude
that when the paramedic told me
i was lucky i had woken up
he was lying
the bottom line is though
that i thought i was ready
to be that person who so
many others knew
went to school with
grew up with
but then they all would have
continued to age
while i became part of the earth again
and while i was certainly
gone for those few hours
before i woke up
soaked in sweat
tangled in my sheets and
the realization that i had failed
my heart was still beating
and when i was pulled under again
fear gripped me tighter than
my depression and
suicidal urges ever did
because i didn’t want to die
i was only sixteen years old
my sister was in the room
right next to mine
and i wondered what that would
have done to her
if she had found me
and that makes me hate myself
just that much more
but failing that
being an almost statistic
waking up
and voluntarily being admitted
into the psychiatric ward
it made me a survivor
it meant that i wanted to live
and i do
i really do
but there are so many
other scars besides the one
on my skin and possibly some
internal organs
that run like deep grooves
inside of my psyche
and i sometimes wonder
why people that want to die
that do **** themselves
are treated like they did not
want to live
when they wanted to live
the most of all
why does wanting to
have the pain stop
make them bad people?
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 2:55 AM UTC
Dopamined
Sertralined
Fluoxetined
Citalopramed
Eescitalopramed
Paroxetine
Fluvoxamine
Trazodone
all put me in the zone
A zone of super happiness
my doctor, did condone
The smile upon my face
by drugs combined, just right
A screaming in my mindless cage
realizing, I simply didn't fight
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
Oddly enough lately I have been tired
So I don't need your help to sleep
But yet I still take you
Because sleep isn't my only problem
Being happy is too
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC